by Meg Adams
After several—seconds? minutes?—he lifted my chin and searched my eyes.
“Are you all right?” His thumb rubbed along my cheek, and the palm that cradled my face was the sweetest thing I’d ever felt.
“I’ll be okay. I’m just in shock, I guess.” I shuddered and he pulled me tightly to him. I let his scent wash over me, replacing the smell of contamination with comfort. Even as I thought that, though, I knew we had to move. If nothing else, I didn’t want to risk Yvette seeing her father sprawled unconscious on the hall floor. I sat up and nodded toward Miles.
“What should we do with him?” I asked. My voice quavered.
“We could haul him into the park and feed him to the wolves,” Drake growled, and I almost chuckled.
“Tempting, but a bit extreme. I was thinking more along the lines of an empty bed or room.” I had passed several on this floor, and we needed to get him out of the hall.
Drake sighed, then kissed my forehead. “You’re right, but I’d rather leave him in a snowbank and let them dig him out come spring.”
My lips quirked, and I tapped his cheek playfully. “It’s just a matter of time.”
“Can’t happen too soon for me,” he grumbled. We both stood up, and Drake dragged Miles into a bedroom, his head thumping against the floorboards, and left him on the floor. I wondered if Miles would even remember what had happened when he woke up. He was drunk enough that he might think his bruises were from falling when he passed out.
I turned to Drake. He stood next to the bed, his eyes locked on mine. A wave of what might have happened engulfed me, and he must have seen the panic in my eyes. In two steps he had grabbed me to his chest, his mouth on mine, as if he would burn away the mark of Miles on my lips.
“Claire,” he groaned, and in an instant, we were on fire. In deft movements, he twirled me against the bed, hiked up my dress, unzipped his pants and plunged into me. My legs wrapped around his back, my fingers clawing his shoulders, and he claimed me, rode me, possessed me. It was heady, thrilling, overwhelming, and then we were there, there, free-falling off the edge into the gentlest landing of my life.
I loved him.
Oh God, I loved him.
He collapsed on top of me, then after a few moments, slowly raised his head and gazed at me. He rubbed his nose against mine and grinned.
“Better?” he whispered.
“Much.”
“Me too.”
He kissed my lips gently, long and lingering, then stood back, pulling me up with him. Neither of us spoke, not wanting to break the moment. Quick and heady, his fucking seemed to be exactly what I’d needed, our passion gluing me—gluing us—back together again. Who knew?
Amazingly, I wanted to giggle. I must be losing it.
We straightened our clothes, and I went downstairs for the food as he went to join Marilyn and the girls. Altogether, maybe fifteen minutes had passed, but it felt like hours, and I was all right. No hysteria. No shakes now or tears. I poked my emotional wounds, looking for weak spots, but all I could feel was Drake—his scent, his touch, inside and out.
Whether true or not, I felt cherished—and it felt wonderful.
I heaped a plate with goodies, asked a waiter to bring juice to the playroom, and then made my way back upstairs. Drake and Marilyn sat at the table with the girls, pretending to drink from the fragile little cups. My heart tugged, but with pleasure, not pain. I was healed in more ways than I had realized. I had fallen over the cliff again, but this time, I’d landed in paradise. There was no way back, but I would be all right.
Marilyn soon returned to the party, albeit reluctantly, and after another half hour or so, the rest of us went back downstairs too. The room was crowded now, the party in full swing. The girls drew attention everywhere we went; even the most dismissive people seemed to thaw a bit, reminded perhaps that Christmas was all about children. And Drake was wonderful.
He introduced me to everyone, not as his nanny, but as his date. I was taken aback the first time, thinking he’d merely say “This is Claire”, but as I heard him repeat it again and again, I let myself believe a tiny bit. Even if it wasn’t true, for one afternoon and evening, it was nice to think we were greater than the sum of our parts. We almost felt like a family, and I tried to soak it up like a drunk’s first whiskey after a long dry spell.
After Christmas carols by the fire and another plate of fruitcake, cookies, turkey and loads of little wieners (the girls loved those), I could tell they were growing tired, their yawns erupting every few minutes. Drake was talking with an older man near us, and when I went to him, he pulled me very naturally into his side. The man’s eyes flickered over me and gave a little grin. I put my hand possessively on Drake’s abdomen, delighting in the slight hitch I felt shoot through him. He grinned and kissed my hair.
“You rang?” he teased, relaxed and happy.
I patted him, as if I had every right to hold this special guy. “You have some tired little elves ready to go home.”
“And the head elf? Is she ready too?” He cocked his head at me, his smile making my stomach flip-flop and my mouth go dry.
I could only nod.
He must have seen the lust flash in my eyes, because he suddenly looked riveted too.
“Let’s go then,” he said. He shook the man’s hand and started us toward the door. More elves brought our things, and after thanking Jason and Marilyn, we called for James.
“Are you sure you’re ready to go?” I asked, once we were settled in the car. “We’ll be fine if you want to stay.”
He squeezed my knee, leaned back and slipped an arm around all three of us.
“More than ready. It’s Christmas Eve, and there’s nowhere I’d rather be than with my girls.”
He rubbed my earlobe with his fingers, and I rubbed my cheek against his palm.
There was nowhere I’d rather be either.
Chapter Fourteen
Drake
Other than the twin demons of Sharon and Miles, the night had been a great success. My girls were the stars of the party, and even if only one was truly mine, it had still been magical. I felt more whole, more hopeful than I had felt in a very long time. And I was more than ready to do some early gift opening of my own.
Claire and I helped the girls into their pajamas, took them into the great room to hang their stockings (two of my big socks after all), tucked them in their bed and then we snuggled on each side of them as Claire read The Night Before Christmas. I caressed Claire’s neck with one finger as she read, unable to keep my hands off her when we sat so near.
The girls drifted off to sleep and we slipped off the bed, then tiptoed out the door. I had thought we might take things slowly—maybe a glass of wine before the fire, some soft carols in the background—but as soon as I shut the door, I knew I couldn’t wait.
I pulled her into my arms and claimed her mouth. Her lips were warm, soft and sweet, and tasted faintly of rum punch. Her touch intoxicated me, the top of my head already unhinging. I ran my hands down her silky back, cupped her bottom close to me, and felt her shiver in my arms. Her nipples, already hard, pressed against me, taunting me.
“Unless you want me to take you right here in the hallway, we need to move now,” I growled against her lips, already sliding the zipper down the back of her dress. She nipped my lower lip, and I felt her smile. My cock leapt, rock hard and aching.
“Your room,” she whispered.
I plunged into her mouth in response, fierce, on fire, and swung her into my arms. I strode into the bedroom and threw us both on the bed, never breaking my hold. I slid her dress off in one desperate peel, groaned when I saw her black lace bra and thong, the tapes of her garter belt holding up her stockings. I scooted down and starting at her knees, let my tongue trace up her thighs, my hands kneading the round globes of her bottom, then pulled her thong, garter belt and st
ockings off with one long pull, like a magician’s tablecloth trick.
I let my hands slowly glide down the length of her legs, her skin soft and smooth, like satin. My nose followed, breathing in the smell of her warm skin, the fragrance of her warm wet center pulling me down her body. The scent of her arousal drugged me, and she tasted like honey, sweet and smooth, delicious, as I delved into her secret core. She shuddered and squirmed, but I refused to let her slip from my hands. She was mine—mine to pleasure, mine to love, mine to keep.
“Sugarplums,” I whispered, as I ran my tongue around and around her nub, then flicked my tongue into her tight opening. She moaned, a sound as delicious to my ears as her cream was to my tongue, and I was ready to explode. I could wait no longer. I needed her, needed her clenched around me. I sat back and pulled her down to the edge of the bed, then flipped her over on her stomach. I stroked her beautiful bottom and felt her tremble under my hands. I slid one finger into her, worked her back and forth, felt her try to clamp on it, then slid another in. She was so ready I could have howled.
“Please, Drake, please,” she moaned.
I spread her wide and surged into her, claiming her with one deep drive into her delicious wetness. Her back arched off the bed and she thrust back, ramming herself on me. I gritted my teeth and hung on, grasping her hips and plunging, in and out, pressing into her, pushing and pumping to a place where we’d fuse completely. A place where she’d never leave me, never cheat on me, never betray me. Mine pounded in my brain, then slipped past my lips, the words echoing in the room.
“Mine.” I pounded the word into her. “Say it, Claire. Say it.”
“Yours,” she gasped. “Yours.”
Every word, every plunge, was a hammer that forged us, bonded us, made us unbreakable.
“Again,” I demanded through gritted teeth, teetering on the edge. I felt her start to spasm. Almost there…
“Yours!” she screamed as she tensed, her body gripping me inside her, taking me with her.
“Mine!” I roared as I spilled inside her, both of us branded with the other. We held it, arched together, my hands and arms straining her against me, my cock nudging her womb. My muscles shuddered, then slowly, achingly, we melted in sweet release.
I collapsed beside her on the bed, her body limp and relaxed, and cocooned the comforter around us. I draped my arm over her back and kissed her ear, then nuzzled her neck, breathing her in. I needed her. I loved her.
“Merry Christmas, love.”
“Merry Christmas to you too,” she mumbled, half asleep.
Yes, it was.
We dozed. It was snowing again, thick flakes falling in peaceful waves, an idyllic Christmas scene. The gas fireplace glowed in the corner and we lay cuddled together, her head snuggled on my shoulder, her leg crossed over mine, and I stroked her hair, my other hand holding hers on my chest. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so content and grinned to myself; I’d never think of “Silent Night” in quite the same way again.
Then I heard the doorbell.
“Drake?” Claire lifted her head. “Who…?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Sharon forgot the security code.” Damn the woman. Could she be any more of a pain?
I climbed out of bed and found some bottoms; the bedroom was chilly, so I slipped on a T-shirt and fleece top too. I stomped down the stairs, certain it was Sharon and ready to let her have it. But it wasn’t Sharon at the door. It was Jason Fritz, clearly agitated, with a police officer hovering behind him.
“Drake, I’m sorry to disturb you. May we come in?”
“Sure,” I said, and stepped back to let them through. They stood awkwardly in the foyer while I shut the door, then I turned to them.
Jason took a deep breath. “Drake, this is Officer Stanton. There’s been an acci—” He stopped himself and amended, “incident.”
“Incident?”
“Miles is dead.”
“What?” I gaped at him, my mind blank, my body numb. I was speechless.
“Miles is dead,” he repeated, “and Sharon…” Jason scanned the ceiling, as if the right words would be written there. “Sharon tried to kill herself.”
Time slowed, as pivotal moments in one’s life seem to do. I didn’t want this moment burned in my brain, but I couldn’t stop it. Like a boulder set in motion at the top of a mountain, Jason’s words gathered speed as they rolled downhill, the momentum unstoppable. I sat heavily on the stairs, the news knocking me off my feet.
Jason continued. “It happened a little while after you left. We all heard a gunshot, so the guards and I rushed upstairs. We found Miles in bed, his pants off, and a bullet in his forehead. The door to the balcony was open, and Sharon was on the edge, teetering. When she saw us, she started laughing hysterically.” He shook his head, as if he tried to wipe the memory from his mind. “Before security could reach her, she jumped.”
“How badly is she hurt?” Claire asked, her voice faint at the top of the stairs. I hadn’t heard her come out of the room.
“We don’t know yet. She was unconscious when the ambulance took her away.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “The medics think she may have broken her neck. If she lives, she may never walk again.”
Claire moved down the stairs and sat beside me. I put my arm around her and pulled her close.
“That poor woman,” Claire said. “And poor Yvette. What do we tell her?”
I shook my head, too stunned by this flood of bad news to answer. I soaked up the comfort of her presence, trying to process it all. I felt anger and pity, regret and guilt, worry and pain, all threads wound into a painful knot.
“I wouldn’t tell her anything yet,” Jason said, “not until we know more. She’s too young to understand much anyway—in this case, a blessing.”
I turned to Officer Stanton. “May we see Sharon?”
He shook his head. “She’s in surgery now, and I need to interview you.” He looked at Claire. “Both of you.”
I nodded, but Claire tensed. I squeezed her shoulder.
Stanton continued. “There’s no question about what happened. Mrs. Lofton had the gun when she fell, and she’d clearly shot it—the residue was on her hand. We just need to get what facts we can in the report.”
“And several guests witnessed her jump,” Jason added. “You were already long gone before this happened.”
“Then why—” Claire started to ask, but Stanton interrupted her.
“Just routine, ma’am. You’ve been sharing this house with Mrs. Lofton, and we understand you both knew the victim.”
“I grew up with Miles.” I glanced at Claire, who scowled at the officer. “She hardly knew him, but he was my best friend once.” Regret threatened to pull me under. I squeezed Claire tightly to me, a buoy in my sea of rampaging emotions.
“Perhaps you could inform his parents then. Do you know how to contact them?” Stanton pulled out a small pad and a pen.
I nodded. “Let’s go up to the kitchen and I’ll make some coffee. Then some phone calls.”
The night seemed endless. Stanton asked Claire a few questions first, but she clearly didn’t know much about either of them. Then he turned to me. Claire sat beside me while I explained—shit—everything. About growing up with Miles, college, Sharon and Wanda, the events of the week, our fight tonight. The only dicey part was when I explained Miles’s betrayal with my ex-wife and the fight. I saw the look on Stanton’s face, could almost hear him adding the equation—jealous ex-husband plus second betrayal by best friend equaling reasonable suspect. Thankfully, Miles had come to and rejoined the party after we left, which also explained how Miles had made it into a bed, instead of collapsed on the floor where I’d left him.
I should have known from the look on Sharon’s face that Miles had gone too far tonight. Even by his standards, that comment about “sloppy seconds” was bey
ond the limit, horrible anywhere, but especially with an audience. Maybe she was too drunk and simply had no filters left. Maybe their encounters had been building to this end for a long time. My relationship with Miles had overstretched too far, his betrayal with Wanda axing it completely, the cut slinging us into opposing worlds. I had no longer known where their relationship stood, but I felt that I should have.
But this? Who could have foreseen this?
And Miles? He would not have taken Claire’s rejection kindly and would have made sure he got laid before the night was over. Had he been with someone else and Sharon found him? Had he lured Sharon into his bed after all, to humiliate her when she still came running? We might never know what had triggered Sharon, but three things were clear. He was dead, Sharon was in big trouble, and someone had to care for Yvette.
With surprising clarity, I realized I wanted to care for Yvette, and not just because she was a sweet little girl whom we loved. In some convoluted way, I felt I owed it to Miles and Sharon, despite all the bad shit we’d been through. Miles had been my best friend for most of my life. I had hung out at Miles’s house, teased his mom, shot the breeze with his dad. They’d always treated me like a second son. And for all Miles’s faults, his parents had loved him. I was probably one of the few people who remembered the younger Miles, when people had admired him, respected him, when he’d still been a golden boy and we’d been like brothers and had great times together. Once, we had watched each other’s backs. I couldn’t do that anymore, but I could love his child.
I owed him that much.
And Yvette had suffered enough.
While Officer Stanton and Jason finished their coffee, I called Miles’s parents. His dad answered and heard the news stoically, almost as if he’d expected to receive such a phone call one day. Maybe they had suspected more of Miles’s nature than I’d guessed, but I still grieved for them. Miles had been an only child, and I couldn’t imagine how I’d feel if I lost Suzie, now or ever. I hated telling him, hated being the bearer of bad news. I knew there was no way to soften the blow, but it was still better to hear such news from a friend rather than a stranger.